Joyful Interlude

At some point I stopped
listening to music. For me
it was someone else’s joy.

Someone else’s story.
Not mine. Abuse of any
kind stops the music

of your life.

My LP records sit on a
shelf. I thumb through
them from time to time.

I can’t play my music
CDs either. I don’t want
to revisit a life of abuse.

Songs stir memories
I rather not have. But I
long for the sweet and

joyful interlude that
was written only for me.

[Author’s note: FYI, there is an exception. I have a group of CDs known as my car music, e.g., The Manhattans, Huey Lewis, The Commodores, to name a few, that I listen to on and off. But they stay in the car.]

Sunday is Coming

It’s cold. The rain is steady
and cold. Not a soul outside,
Just me. There goes a bird.

Another bird from a different
tree. The rain is stopping soon.
I’m hopeful on Fridays because

COVID–19 is leaving and Sunday
is coming.

Then Sunday passes. The call
will come. Maybe not today.
Maybe tomorrow because

Sunday is coming.

Shadows in Life

all things are forgotten
by humankind
by time
by design

except for the memories
of war
of abuse
of pain
of suffering

for they are our own
they made us who we are
maybe not who we thought
we wanted to be

and what of the other memories
of joy
of love
of peace
et cetera

they cast light on the shadows
in life with hope for the life
to come

just like the knowledge of God
cannot be listed as a memory

Saturday Memories

I can’t recall but I think I’m suffering
from this grand delusion that Saturdays
used to be special.

That wasn’t the case today. Saturday
was noisy. It came with a din of its own.
I’ve never enjoyed hearing other people’s

loud music as they fly by in a truck (I’d
never choose to drive or own). I’ve never
been a truck person. If I stick with cars

you would think I’ve been driving in
circles my whole life. My first new car was
after I came home from Vietnam in 1968.

It was a navy blue VW Beetle with a gray
interior. So, it seems cars in my life have a
story of their own that is part of my story.

I’ll blame the gas wars. While at Ft. Dix in
1973 I tried so hard to fit in, I bought a
gold Ford LTD. It was a boat! Everyone liked

it except me. The yellow MG B wasn’t really
me either. Then came married life on low
Army pay. A yellow Chevy Chevette went to

Germany and back. Drove it for ten years.
The years went by as quickly as the cars! The
car that I really thought was me was my navy

blue Jeep Liberty. It was a lemon. You wouldn’t
know that to look at it. The outside was so
beautiful! Engine, parts, wheels, bearings, rods,

you name it. It failed again and again. It was a
mess on the inside. Hold on, hold on. Am I
telling you about my life or my cars?

I replaced the engine and sold it either with or
for peanuts. And I had to get a car. I lived in NW
Phoenix. The firm that hired me was in Chandler.

I had to commute one hundred miles a day. I
must have been thinking of my dad. He loved his
two-tone 1956 Chrysler New Yorker. I bought a

used silver four cylinder Chrysler 200 for this crazy
commute. I put on 40,000 miles in no time. Work
came to a halt. My life came to a halt. Divorce.

Sold the house. Bought a bright orange 2018 VW
Beetle. I’ve come full circle. I’m back where I started
if we are talking about cars. Arizona is a slide show

of memories that I see in my rear view mirror once in a
while. The Bug is cool. Yikes! It might be my last car. I
wonder about that every time I see a Chrysler 300.

It has got to be a V8.

Radio is singing in her bath. Music is loud. She knows
all lyrics. All. All the old Saturdays are gone. They visit.
But they are gone. I’m wrong. Every day is a gift.

Bits and pieces of our lives are tied to our cars. We
remember our cars and our cars remember us. If a car
could talk! I didn’t tell you about every car of mine.

Why would I do that? Just a few Saturday memories.